So Now You've Got the Shining
by UZI4U
Summary: Set after Home, before Asylum. Will Sam's newfound shining help the brothers with their latest case, or will it be the death of them both...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the Winchesters or Missouri Mosley, but the story line is purely original.

Setting: After "Home" but before "Asylum"

Pairings: None (just our two loveable boys!)

AN: Okay, I know I shouldn't have two stories going at once, but I couldn't help it. I was inspired by a true story that my friend told me and added my own spin on it. This is completely separate from my other fics so no need to worry about any Mary-Sues, there aren't any.

Special thanks to my little bro' for his creative help.

As always, please read and review, it makes my day J

Chapter 1

Manchester, New Hampshire. 7:20 PM

The sleepy little neighborhood tucked away in the side streets of Manchester was just the place the Connors had been searching for. Steve and Linda had spent months searching for the perfect home; one close enough to town, but with a yard for the girls to play in. After an entire day spent scouting around town with a very pregnant Linda wilting in the backseat of the realtor's car, they had stumbled upon the old manor house. Sure it was a bit out of their price range, and sure it needed some fixing up, but all in all the place was an absolute steal and the couple had instantly fallen in love with it. However, restoring the vacant home had proved to be more difficult than they'd imagined…

"Baby, where did you put the hammer?" Linda could hear her husband's voice echoing through their sparsely decorated living room, the sound reflecting off of the bare walls and hardwood floors.

She screwed the cap onto her four-month-old daughter's bottle and dropped it into the pot of warm water on the stove. " You said you were going to put it in your truck, remember?" she called back to Steve. She crossed the kitchen to baby Grace's highchair and scooped up the gurgling bundle that she had so lovingly dressed in pink fleece. The old house was more than chilly and she always had the baby in a sweater or hat to keep her from catching a cold.

Linda settled Grace on her hip and walked across the scalloped, creaky floor to join her husband in the next room. She winced with every moan and groan the house released, knowing that it only meant more nails to drive and more boards to replace.

Steve was standing in front of the fireplace, hands on his hips, staring at a large, gold-framed mirror he'd propped on the mantle. "What d'ya think?" he asked, turning towards his wife and motioning toward the mirror.

Linda smiled at him. He was working his fingers to the bone on this house, trying to make it perfect for her and she was reminded of just how much she loved him. "It looks great, sweetie," she assured him. Grace began to whimper, no doubt hungry for dinner and Linda shifted her to the other hip.

"Well, I guess I better get that hammer so I can hang this thing," Steve said. He pressed a kiss to Linda's cheek as he walked past her into the kitchen. "I'll be right back."

Linda hefted a now crying Grace and headed back to the kitchen and the bottle that was waiting on the stove. She collected the bottle and sat in one of the ladder-back chairs at the table. Just as she fitted the bottle's nipple into the baby's mouth, the door opened and Steve poked his head into the room.

He looked slightly perturbed. "Why'd you turn out the light?"

"What?" Linda set the bottle on the table and rose to meet her husband at the door.

"The porch light, you turned it off right as I got to my truck," Steve explained.

Linda gave a little disbelieving grin. "Baby, I didn't turn out the light."

"Well I just put in a new bulb, so I know it didn't burn out. Why'd you do it?"

"Steven," Linda was becoming annoyed. "I-did-not-do-it."

Steve rolled his eyes and reached in to flip the light switch. As he'd expected, the porch and driveway beyond were suddenly bathed in the warm glow of the incandescent bulb. He pulled the door shut loudly behind him and stomped down the steps.

"Oh, that man. Sometimes I swear…" Linda returned to her chair and picked up the bottle.

It was empty.

"What?" She held the bottle up to light, illuminating the few drops of formula still lingering at the bottom.

"Abby?" She knew that her oldest must be playing a joke on her, the six-year-old was full of mischief. "Abby?" she repeated, looking around the room. Nothing stirred, nothing seemed out of place.

Sighing, she rose and went to the fridge to collect more formula. There were three bottles already made-up and she pulled out one to place on the stove. "Well, it'll be just a little longer," she told Grace, rocking the unhappy baby in her arms. She walked laps around the table, singing one lullaby after the other. The walls echoed her song eerily, seeming to whisper in their own verses. Linda pulled the baby into her chest a little closer, feeling a slight shiver. "This house is so damn cold," she muttered.

She checked her watch; it had been ten minutes. "Okay Gracie, I think it's ready." She returned to the stove and pulled the bottle from the heated water.

The bottle was empty.

"Abigail!" Linda stomped her foot for emphasis. "You'd better come out right now, young lady!" She waited, holding the whining Grace and the empty bottle.

_It's Abby, I know it is_ Linda told herself as she tapped her foot impatiently. But there was another voice in her head, one that kept saying _you know she wasn't in the room; you would have seen her._

"Abby?"

_She isn't here, Linda. She couldn't have drank the milk without you seeing it…_

Suddenly she didn't want to hold the bottle any more. She set it hastily on the counter and backed away. She felt silly, she was being irrational. There had to be an explanation for this.

The ceiling above her began to squeak as something made its way down the upstairs hall. They were small squeaks, made by something light and compact. They moved to the staircase, then descended, each wooden step sounding out a unique, torturous wail. The sound was coming closer, coming towards the kitchen, towards Linda and her baby.

Her breath caught as a small figure entered the doorway, but sighed in relief as she recognized said figure as Abby. But the relief was quickly replaced by a strange tingling at the back of her neck caused by the knowledge that Abby had not drained the formula from the bottles.

"Hi, sweetie," she tried to keep her voice steady.

"Mommy," the little girl's blue eyes were wide and fearful, an expression that a parent never enjoys seeing. "There's…there's something under my bed."

"Oh baby, there's nothing under your bed," Linda said soothingly. "You must be having a nightmare."

"No Mommy, I wasn't sleeping. I was coloring at my desk and I…I saw something," her voice grew softer with every word and she pulled her hands up under her chin.

Sighing, Linda strapped Grace into her swing in the corner of her room and escorted her oldest up the stairs. "Come on, I'll prove that there's nothing there," she soothed.

Mother and daughter made their way up the stairs and down the long hall to arrive at Abby's room. Linda pushed the door open and stepped into the large room. There was a short-legged desk in one corner, a bookshelf that displayed stuffed animals and pictures, and a twin bed beside the window.

The bed was white wood with a pink and mint green spread and matching pillow shams. Abby pointed at it and grasped her mother's shirt tail with her other hand. "It was under there, Mommy, I promise."

Linda ruffled Abby's blonde curls and offered her a smile. "Okay, I'll check, but I know that there's nothing there." She walked over to the bed and crouched down beside it.

_Nothing there, nothing there, nothing there_ she chanted in her mind, feeling ashamed at her needless fears. She reached out one hand slowly and grasped the lace dust ruffle. Inch by inch she raised it up, wincing as she peered under the bed to find…

Nothing. She exhaled loudly, unaware that she'd been holding her breath, and turned back to her daughter.

"Mommy…"

Linda shook her head. "See baby? Everything's okay. There's nothing…"

Abby's scream could have awakened the dead. That is, if they weren't already awake…

-O-

100 miles away…

"Disappeared?" Sam's eyebrows rose above the rim of his coffee mug and slipped into his shaggy hairline.

Dean lowered the newspaper, revealing his sharp, hazel eyes and chiseled jaw line. "Yeah Sam, that's usually what they call it when a person vanishes without any reasonable explanation."

"Smartass," Sam grumbled, setting his mug down and reaching for the paper. "Let me see."

"Uh-uh, what's the magic word?" Dean pulled the paper out of his brother's reach and flashed the biggest fake grin he could conjure.

"Dean…" Sam sounded tired, too worn out to play the game so Dean slapped the paper down with a sour face.

"Thank you," Sam muttered as he spun the paper around so that he could read the article Dean had been talking about.

Dean leaned back in the small booth they had crammed into at the motel's buffet and folded his arms with a sigh. He watched his brother across the table, taking in the way Sam's 6'3" frame hunched over the newspaper and the way the circles under his eyes had darkened. Dean knew that he hadn't slept at all since leaving Lawrence, since leaving their old home.

It had been so painful for Dean to step across the threshold of that house, positively heartbreaking to be flooded with memories of his brief shot at a normal life. As hard as it was for him, all he could worry about was how Sam would take it, how he would react at returning to the place where it had all began.

And he'd been right to worry. When their mother's spirit appeared, he'd seen the tears pouring down Sam's cheeks. And he'd seen him lay awake every night since then, afraid of the visions that haunted his dreams.

Dean was pulled from his thoughts as Sam looked up from the paper, a doubtful expression on his face. "So Linda Connor just disappears in her own house. How does her husband know she didn't just run out on him?"

"Because," Dean said with more patience than he felt. "The daughter saw something."

"Something?"

"Her mother got pulled under her bed," Dean gave a little triumphant grin, knowing he had Sam trapped.

"Pulled?"

"Pulled."

Sam held up his hands and sighed loudly. "Fine, you win. New Hampshire here we come."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

20…21…22…

Sam watched the gas pump tick through the last of their precious cash and sighed loudly. His fingers felt as if they were literally frozen to the nozzle's handle and he silently asked for the fifteenth time why _he_ was the one pumping gas into his _brother's_ car. And then that got him asking why they were in Manchester in the first place and why he had caved to Dean's orders yet again. And of course that brought him back to the original question as to why he'd blindly obeyed when Dean had headed into the convenience store and told him to "Fill 'er up".

Frustration finally got the best of him and he gave the rear tire a good kick, immediately regretting it. It wasn't the Impala's fault. In fact, it was a wonder the poor car hadn't quit on them a long time ago.

Sam stopped the pump when it reached thirty dollars and decided that it was high time Dean traded in the V8 big block, gas- guzzler for a Honda. But he had to admit that he couldn't blame him for loving the car, it was gorgeous and the ladies thought so too. He cracked a tiny smile at the thought of his studly brother whistling at a girl while hanging out of the window of a Civic.

"Hey, doofus," the voice of the stud himself pulled Sam from his idle wondering and he snapped his head around to see Dean striding toward the car, arms laden with several plastic shopping bags.

"What, did you buy the whole damn store?" Sam asked, pulling open the rear door.

Dean set down the bags on the back seat and shrugged. "If we're gonna be homeowners, we're gonna need supplies."

"Homeowners?" Sam wasn't sure he'd heard his brother correctly. No way was Zeppelin-loving, gun toting, tire squealing, don't give a shit Dean Winchester suddenly ready to settle down, and in New Hampshire no less! "Did I miss something here?"

Dean flashed his infamous smirk, loving his brother's reaction. "Don't get your panties in a wad, Samantha," he stepped back to avoid the fist that swung half-heartedly in the general direction of his shoulder. "We're going to _pretend_ to be homeowners. Dean and Sam _Hendrix _just became the proud owners of one-eleven Cyprus Lane."

"The Connor house," Sam folded his arms and leaned against the Impala's fender as realization set in. "How did you manage that?"

Dean stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and puffed out his chest proudly. "I found a listing for the house in the paper, the same paper that ran the article about Linda Connor's disappearance. I called the agent who informed me that she no longer represented Mr. Connor. Apparently, every time she showed the house, the prospective buyers were scared off by, and I quote, 'mysterious sounds and an overall drafty quality of the house'."

"Interesting Dean, in fact I'm impressed by your correct use of the word prospective," that earned Sam a punch in the arm. "But that doesn't explain how we now own the house."

"We don't, dumbass. I've figured that fake IDs and credit reports, and so on, can buy us about three or four days in the house to figure out what we're dealing with. We're going to 'lease' it"

"And what happens when Mr. Connor figures out that we're total scam artists?"

"We'll be done killing whatever evil bastard took his wife and well on our way out of here," Dean explained as though it were perfectly obvious. "Now come on, we're meeting Steve at the house in fifteen minutes," he reached into his pocket and pulled out several crumpled bills. "Here, go pay for the gas," he added with a truly maniacal grin.

Sam took the money with a snarl and trudged toward the store, beginning his tirade of mental questions all over again.

-O-

Cyprus Court was located just on the outskirts of downtown Manchester and appeared to be one of the slightly more up-scale neighborhoods in the area. Tall, miniature mansions in all different colors were sprawled across large lots on either side of the street. The trees were bare and leafless, furthering the antique appearance of the old restored homes.

"Nice digs," Dean commented as the Impala cruised down the quiet street beside rows of parked BMWs and Jaguars. "Don't worry, baby. They may be more expensive, but they ain't got nothing on you," he cooed to the car, stroking the dash lovingly.

Sam rolled his eyes and glanced out the passenger window just in time to catch the mailbox number of their destination. "Whoa! One-eleven, right there."

Dean stomped on the brakes and spun the Impala up into the drive, earning a gasp from his brother, and chuckled. "Just showing off a little for these yuppie cars," he justified.

Sam made a 'whatever' face to cover up his momentary panic and tried to concentrate on examining the house they had pulled up to. It was two stories, white wood with a black roof. While it didn't look very wide from the front, it was very deep. Rather than a front porch, there was a narrow brick stoop and Sam spotted two chimneys jutting up from the roof.

Dean pulled the Impala to a stop at the end of the driveway next to a green Buick and killed the engine. There was a tall man who looked maybe thirtyish standing on a small, covered porch on the side of the house and Dean figured it must be Steve Connor.

"Let's go," he told Sam and rolled out of the car.

As the brothers approached the porch, they could see that Steve was obviously nervous. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot and tapping his fingers on the railing. "Hi there, I'm Steve Connor," he offered, voice trembling ever so slightly. "You two must be the Hendrixes."

Anyone else would have assumed the man was just eager, or maybe he just had a stutter, but Dean knew differently. He'd seen, or heard rather, the tremors of fear in almost every innocent they came in contact with. "I'm Dean, we spoke over the phone, and this is my _brother_ Sam," he was careful to emphasize their relationship. There had been a mix-up in Oklahoma as to he and Sam's 'sexual orientation' as the locals had put it, and as fun as it had been to see his brother squirm, Dean didn't really feel like playing up the whole gay lover thing again.

"Nice to meet you both," Steve extended a hand to both Dean and Sam in turn and the Winchesters muttered their how-do-you-dos. "Let me show you the house," he stepped into the open door and led them into the spacious kitchen.

The room was bare except for a small, square table, its four ladder-backed chairs, and a fridge. The floor was wood, had been stained at one point, but the glossy finish had rubbed away over the years.

"As you can see," Steve apologized. "We were in the process of fixing the place up when we…when I…well, it still needs some work."

Dean didn't miss the pained expression that flashed across Steve's face or the way his Adam's apple bobbed just a little too hard when he swallowed. "Aw, that's alright," Dean said lightly. "We were looking for a fixer-upper. It looks like a great house, why did you move out?"

Steve's step nearly faltered as they passed into the equally bare, yet cavernous living room. "My wife…well, she's not around any more and I didn't have the heart to keep it up without her."

Sam moved to the mantle and ran a hand across the smooth flagstones, absorbing Steve's words. He'd said she wasn't around, meaning the body still hadn't been found. If it had been some sort of creature that snatched her under the bed, there would have at least been a blood trail.

He turned to take in the expansive room, its patched walls and high ceilings, and he felt the tiniest tingle at the back of his neck. The sensation reminded him of the feeling in the atmosphere right before lightening struck. He lifted his arm and hastily rolled up his sleeve to find that the thin brown hairs on the exposed limb were standing on end. His head snapped up and he locked eyes with Dean who was glaring at him. Steve had apparently noticed his odd behavior as well and had a concerned look on his face.

"Are you okay?" he asked, seemingly terrified that Sam would say no.

"Oh, sure, I'm fine," Sam flashed a quick smile and pulled his sleeve down. "I was just wondering if you ever noticed anything weird about the house."

"No, never," Steve responded too quickly, licking his lips. "I mean, it squeaks and groans, but that's to be expected from a house this old."

"Oh, yeah, not a problem," Dean assured, clapping Steve on the back. "Like I said, Sam and I live for this kind of work, believe me." He shot Sam a 'what the hell is wrong with you' look as he steered Steve back towards the kitchen. "Now what d'ya say we sign that lease agreement?"

Sam knew he'd freaked Steve out, but he didn't really care. He rubbed the back of his neck and felt the hairs were raised there as well. Connor had been lying; there was definitely something weird about this house. Actually, Sam was afraid that weird was going to be an understatement.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Dean and Steve's voices echoed across the bare walls of the manor house, but Sam couldn't hear their exact words. He could tell that his brother was laying on the good ol' boy charm extra thick to keep Steve from becoming suspicious and it seemed to be working. Sam knew that he should join them in the kitchen, try to save himself from the earlier awkwardness, but he seemed to be rooted in place. Oh sure he could move, he wasn't being held by some unseen force, but he didn't want to move.

He could hear something, something ever so faint above the murmuring of the men in the adjourning room. It was like the wind whispering softly through a field of grass, as if a thousand stalks were swaying and rustling against one another. Sam tilted his head, intrigued. If only Dean would shut up in there, give him a chance to hear…

"Thanks again, Steve! You take care!" Possibly the politest words ever to escape Dean Winchester's lips seemed to banish the sound that had Sam so captivated and the kitchen door closed loudly. Sam could hear the clunk of Dean's Timberlands as the elder brother came into the living room. He soon appeared in the doorway, holding a silver key in one hand and sporting a very pissed off expression.

"Sam! What the hell is with you, man?" he demanded, stopping a foot short of the accused party. "You almost blew the whole damn thing!"

Sam looked calmly down into his brother's sparking hazel eyes and gave a tiny facial shrug. "I dunno, I just, felt something."

"You mean like my foot in your ass?"

Sam sighed; he wasn't sure why he'd expected Dean to understand, he wasn't one to believe in the realm of psychic abilities. It struck Sam as funny how a man who'd spent his entire life vanquishing spirits and demons of all kinds couldn't come to grips with the fact that his brother had 'the Shining', as he liked to put it. "Look, I'm sorry, alright?"

"Fine," Dean shrugged. He held up the key and offered a smile to show there were no hard feelings. "We've got the place to ourselves, Sam my boy. You get the beer, I'll get the chicks, and we can start this party, huh?"

Sam rolled his eyes.

-O-

A quick sweep through the rest of the house revealed numerous large, empty rooms and as they had expected, not a stick of furniture. So, they'd headed back into town and located a K-Mart that carried everything from diapers to tires. An hour later, the brothers Winchester returned to one-eleven Cyprus Court with two sleeping bags, some food, and of course the essentials: toilet paper and beer.

Dean fumbled with the key on the dark porch for nearly five minutes, cursing the bag that was slowly sliding from his shoulder. Finally, he got the door open and entered the inky blackness of the kitchen. "Where's the light?" he asked, running a hand across the wall. In answer to his question, his fingers brushed aswitch plate and he flipped on the dinky chandelier, illuminating the room.

Sam pushed past his brother and set a bag of chips and other assorted junk foods on the small table. He noticed how the overhead light didn't quite reach the room's corners and he found that he was unconsciencely rubbing his jacketed arms.

"Come on, cupcake. I'm not carrying all this stuff myself," Dean poked Sam's bicep and turned for the door, flicking on the porch light as he did so.

"Mm-kay," Sam murmured but remained standing in the kitchen. As Dean's footfalls faded down the porch steps, Sam's ears latched on to a different sound. It was a creak from the floor above, a normal sound for a house of this age; it could be the settling of ancient wood. Except it was repeated, multiple times, and it seemed to be moving; starting somewhere deeper in the house and growing nearer.

It could have been anything, Sam knew, and any other normal, sane human being would have chalked the noise up to the wind or rats. But Sam Winchester was far from normal, as he now knew, and was starting to question the sane part as well.

Dean would be pissed that he wasn't coming to help, but he could wait. Sam pulled a Maglite from the interior pocket of his jacket and clicked it on as he headed into the benighted house.

-O-

Dean pulled open the Impala's rear door and reached for the sleeping bags he'd just paid a pretty penny for. He decided he wanted the black one, Sam could have the blue, and turned to inform his brother of this only to notice that he was alone. "Sam! Get your lazy ass out here!" he called.

There was no response and Dean stomped his foot like a five-year-old girl having a temper tantrum. "Sam!" he tried again, but still no response.

"Damn him," he muttered and slung a bag over each shoulder. Just as he closed the car door with his knee, the driveway was swept in shadow. With a frown he looked up to see that the porch light was off. "Funny Sam, real funny," he called as he stumbled up the porch steps. His shoulder struck the doorjamb as he struggled to regain his balance and he was forced to fling both sleeping bags to the floor to keep from falling on his face. "You little ass-wipe!"

But much to his dismay, Sam wasn't there to receive his cursing and this just pissed him off even more. "I gotta do every damn thing myself, huh?" he asked the shadowy room. He spied the bag from the convenience store on the table where Sam had left it and reached in for a beer. He twisted off the top of a Budweiser Select and took a long swig. It was warm, but it was still beer.

Dean sighed and set the bottle down on the table before giving the room one last glance. "Fine Sam, you wanna play hide-and-seek, be my guest. Just don't ask for my help when the boogie man finds you first." With a little snort of frustration, he trooped back outside to the car, flipping on the porch light again as he left. But he wasn't halfway to the Impala before the light went out on him again. Fortunately, he knew the trunk of the car like the back of his hand and was able to locate his hunting supplies without any trouble in the dark.

Toting two sawed-off twelve gauges, a chrome-plated .45, and several boxes of both buckshot and homemade rock salt shells, Dean managed to ascend the stairs more gracefully than before. The room was still empty and he set the weapons on the table with a clatter. "Where the hell are you Sam?" he asked, hearing his words bounce back to him from the bare walls.

With a sigh, he reached for his Bud and tilted back the bottle, expecting the kiss of warm alcohol. But his lips remained dry and untouched. "What the…" The bottle was empty, completely empty, not so much as a drop clinging to the amber glass.

He slammed the bottle down and reached into the bag for another. Nearly slicing his thumb on the top in his haste, he chugged down half of it before setting it down beside the first bottle. Where did Sam get off? Like it wasn't bad enough that he didn't carry in his share of supplies, then turn the light out on him _twice_, but then he drinks his beer? Big mistake.

Dean picked up his new beer and nearly gasped when he felt how light it was. Sure enough, the second bottle was empty and bone dry. He rolled it around in his hands, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for what had just happened, but couldn't find one. Then his heart skipped a beat when realization dawned.

"Sam?" This time his tone wasn't demanding or pissed, but was laced with sheer panic. "Sam? Sammy?" he tried louder, and his only response was a creak from the floor above. He snatched up one of the shotguns loaded with rock salt and the .45 that had a full clip of the real thing. "Sammy?" he called once again as he slipped into the darkness of the next room.

-O-

Sam was unsure of where the noise was coming from once he reached the top of the stairs. There was a long, black hallway yawning ahead of him and the creaks had stopped for the moment. He stood still, waiting, holding his breath and straining his ears. Then it came, the stress of the old floor under some undetermined weight.

He pressed his back against the wall and began to slink down the hall. With every step he felt the tingles at the back of his neck and he suddenly found it more difficult to draw breath.

_Creak._

The tingles became more insistent, more like a steady pressure.

_Creak._

His chest felt a little tighter, a little more constrained.

_Creak._

His feet became almost too heavy to lift…

"Sammy!" That sound was definitely not made by the house and Sam jerked upright. He hadn't realized that he had been crouching as he walked and he rubbed his chest as he made his way back to the top of the stairs.

"Sam!" Dean's voice came booming up the stairs and Sam could make out his brother's shadowed features in the dark parlor below.

"I'm up here," he called softly and began to descend the wooden steps.

"Well I've been looking all over for you. Ithought you'd been snatched by the friggin' monster under the bed!" Dean growled, trying to cover up his concern with gruffness.

"No, I'm fine," Sam rubbed the back of his neck as he reached his brother's side.

Dean gave him a sharp look. "What's up with you? You're going all 'night of the living dead' on me here," he said, indicating Sam's dazed expression.

"Like I said, I'm fine," Sam shook his head and blinked several times. "Besides, you're wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"You mentioned the infamous monster under the bed, and you're wrong. A monster would have left behind Linda Connor's body, or at least part of it. Not to mention they would have found it when they moved out."

Dean folded his arms and nodded. "Right. But still, I've never heard of a house just taking a person."

"No, but what else do we have to go on?"

"Beer, chips, and a very long night," Dean sighed.

They decided to spend the night in the large living room with the fireplace. Dean poured a protective ring of salt and they unrolled their sleeping bags inside of it. He knew that they had to be on guard and offered to take the first watch. After much protest, Sam finally acquiesced and settled down in his blue sleeping bag. Before long, Dean heard the sounds of his brother's steady breathing and smiled fractionally in the dark.

Sam hadn't truly slept in a long time, and it was rather odd that he could drift off so easily in the creaky old house. But then again, Sam had been acting a little off ever since stepping across the threshold. It was nothing huge, he wasn't possessed or anything, but it was something a big brother would notice.

Dean watched Sam's chest rise and fall beneath the blue nylon, finding the rhythmic motion to be soothing. He found himself fighting to keep his eyes open and continually pinched his own cheeks to try and stay awake. Eventually, however, he lost the battle and was claimed by sleep.

-O-

Dean wasn't exactly sure what had awakened him, but he knew it was loud. He jerked bolt upright in his sleeping bag and instinctively swung the .45 out from under his pillow and into firing position. His eyes darted around the room, finding only blackness and his brother's shadowy form.

Sam was struggling awake in his own sleeping bag and fumbling for his flashlight. "Wha..s goin' on?" he asked groggily, voice thick with sleep.

"Dunno," Dean wriggled out of the bag and got to his feet, thankful he'd decided to sleep in his clothes. He swept the gun across the empty room, finger ready on the trigger.

Sam finally located his flashlight and flicked it on. He clambered up and stood next to Dean, illuminating the path of his brother's weapon. They didn't see anything.

"Maybe we were just hearing things," Dean muttered, letting his finger slip outside the trigger guard.

"Maybe," Sam swung the yellow beam across the floor, over the wooden boards right up to their feet…

"Wait," Sam gasped, shooting the beam back towards the wall, passing it over nothing but floor.

"What, Sam? There's nothing there."

"Exactly. Dean, your salt circle, it's gone." Deep brown eyes locked onto hazel and the boys shared an expression that was a mix of puzzlement and fear.

"What the _hell _is going on here?" Dean's eyebrow's arched sharply as he pulled the light from Sam and searched the floor for himself. The carefully laid circle of salt was indeed gone.

"What could have done this?" Sam asked, not believing his eyes.

Before Dean could say that he had no clue, the younger Winchester was answered by a tremendously loud thump from upstairs.

Without a word, Sam hefted one of the shotguns from the floor and he and Dean slipped through the dark room and up the stairs. Dean held the .45 in front of him as they made their way down the hall in an unintentional impersonation of James Bond. Sam might have laughed if it weren't for the sudden weight on his chest and the icy sensation at the back of his neck. He wondered if Dean could feel it as well; the suffocating presence of somthing sinister.

But he couldn't ask because the thump was repeated and seemed to be coming from a room off to their right. Dean slid one hand just inside the dark doorway and flipped the switch he found on the wall. The room was suddenly lit with the by a light that was attached to a ceiling fan and the boys were met by yet another empty room.

"It definitely came from in here," Dean whispered, searching for confirmation.

Sam just nodded, afraid that his throat was too thick to emit sound. He had this terrible sense of dread, as if every step he took into the room brought him closer to his impending doom.

The sound came again, louder than ever, and this time it was without a doubt that whatever was making said sound was behind the only other door in the room.

Dean knew that Sam's hypothesis about the lack of acorporeal creaturein the house was very likely true, but whatever was behind that closet door was making some very real, monster-like noises. Eyes hard and heart pounding, he motioned with the muzzle of the gun for Sam to open the door. His brother hesitated for a moment then moved forward and placed a hand on the brass knob.

Dean sucked in his breath and held it as Sam twisted the knob and jumped sideways.

As the door swung open, a blur came flying out of the closet towards the two brothers.

Dean never flinched as he pulled the trigger and the .45 bucked in his steady hands.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Thanks as always to my reviewers, your support keeps me going. I promise things will pick up and become more exciting, all in due time.

Chapter 4

"So, what the hell, huh?" Dean reached into the bag of Cheetos and frowned when he came up empty. He settled instead for a honey bun and tore off the plastic wrapper with his teeth.

Both boys were seated at the kitchen table, the weak light from the chandelier emphasizing the dark circles under their eyes. After Sam had opened the closet door, Dean had fired twice at the shapeless form that had come leaping out at them. Sam had jumped out of the way and hastily added his own spray of rock salt to the attack, giving whatever it was, be it spirit or creature, little chance for survival. And after the bang of the gunshots had died to a low ringing in their ears, they had seen that their attacker was very dead and very…fluffy?

Pieces of cloth and stuffing were strewn about the floor, mixed in with large grains of salt, and Sam had recognized the remnants of what used to be a very soft and cuddly teddy bear. They had cleaned up the mess wordlessly, neither one wanting to admit that they'd just blasted the shit out of a child's play thing and in doing so discovered a rag doll tucked away on the shelf where the bear had fallen from.

The doll now sat on the table between them amongst empty bags and wrappers and Dean was glaring at it. "Do you think it was possessed?"

Sam chewed the end of a Twizzler thoughtfully and poked at the doll's yellow yarn hair with an index finger. "I don't think so."

"Well something made all that noise," Dean sounded frustrated. He raked a hand through his not quite blonde hair and frowned when he realized he'd just smeared icing through his spiky do.

Sam frowned and let his eyes wander to the window above the sink and the dark beyond that came just before first light. "Do you actually think a possessed toy could move all of that salt? Personally I think we're dealing with something much bigger."

"Yeah, I know," Dean tried pulling the sugary white substance out of his hair with his clean hand. "But we haven't seen anything, nobody has."

"Correction, one person saw something."

Dean sucked the icing from his fingers and hinted at a grin. He reached out and scooped up the doll, meeting Sam's gaze. "I think Miss Connor would appreciate the return of her favorite dolly."

-O-

At exactly 9:42 am, Dean and Sam stood outside of apartment 3C in building B of the Manchester Heights apartment complex. It hadn't taken long to find Steve Connor's new listing in the phone book and they now waited expectantly for a response to Dean's knock.

After a few seconds, they could hear the rattle of the lock and the door opened marginally to reveal half of Steve's face. "Hey there, Steve. It's Dean and Sam…Hendrix," Dean greeted, nearly forgetting their alias.

"Oh, hello boys," Steve opened the door the rest of the way, revealing his sweats clad form. "Won't you come in?" He stepped aside to allow Dean and Sam entrance.

It was a small, almost cramped space, or at least it felt that way compared to the sprawling manor. There appeared to be a living area, a small kitchen, and most likely two bedrooms. Cardboard boxes were stacked in all of the available floor space, giving the apartment the feeling of a rent your own storage facility.

"Sorry for the mess," Steve said with slight embarrassment. "We're still in the unpacking process."

"Don't worry, so are we," Dean flashed a charming smile.

"I trust everything is alright with the house?" Steve narrowed his eyes in silent prayer that Dean wasn't about to back out on their lease agreement.

"Oh definitely," Sam chimed in suddenly, mirroring his brother's smile. "It's just that we happened to find something that belongs to your daughter." _More like almost blew it to pieces _he thought _but, whatever_. He reached into his canvas duct jacket and withdrew the doll for Steve's inspection.

"Ah, Molly," Steve said as he accepted the doll and a smile slowly spread across his lips. "My wife made this for Abby," he said wistfully. He then turned and called across the small apartment. "Abby! Come out here, sweetheart!"

A small wisp of a little girl came trudging slowly from a doorway beyond the kitchen counter, twirling a lock of her blonde hair around a tiny finger. Her blue eyes were wide and apprehensive as she caught sight of the two strange men standing beside her father.

"Come here, honey," Steve coaxed. "This is Dean and Sam," he pointed to each of the Winchesters in turn. "They brought you something."

Dean gave a stiff little wave, he had never been too great with kids, but Sam knelt before the girl and offered a warm smile. "Hi Abby, it's so nice to meet you," he said, voice dripping with sugar. Dean would have rolled his eyes but knew that the gesture wouldn't go unnoticed.

"Did you bring me a present?" Abby asked, voice a tiny squeak. Her eyes were wide and too full of doubt for someone her age.

"Yeah, I did," Sam took the rag doll that Steve offered to him from over his shoulder and handed it to Abby.

"Molly!" she gasped, instantly snatching up the doll and clutching it to her chest. Sam felt a pang of sympathy for the poor girl. She was about the same age that Dean had been when they had lost their own mother. While Sam had never known Mary Winchester, he could see the pain his brother felt at every mention of her name. He had even tasted a bit of the grief just weeks before back in Lawrence, back in their old home when he'd seen their mother for the first time. He blinked rapidly to check the tears that suddenly seemed to well at the memory.

"Abby, what do you say?" Steve prompted his daughter's whispered 'thank you' before excusing himself to answer the phone that had begun to ring shrilly.

"You're very welcome," Sam said sadly, and patted the girl's shoulder before gathering himself to rise.

"Wait," he could barely hear her but felt the gentle tug at the hem of his jacket and looked down to see that she was tugging at the rough fabric in earnest. "Did you find Teddy?" she asked leaning her face in close to Sam's.

"Sorry, kid, we didn't see it," Dean said quickly, shifting his feet a little uncomfortably.

Abby let her eyes flash briefly to the older man then returned them to stare intently into Sam's brown orbs. "Did you find…" her face pinched up in pain and desperation as her voice dropped even lower. "Did you find my mommy?" She had one small hand on Sam's shoulder, clutching the material that lined his hood.

He feel her anxiety, sense the lonely nights she had spent crying herself to sleep. "What happened to her, Abby, what did you see that night?" Sam unconsciencely matched her tone. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and he found that he was hanging, waiting suspended in time for the little angel's response.

"She…she…went under the bed."

"Did she crawl under?"

"No," Abby frowned, unable to come up with the correct words. "She went, like when I go down a slide at the park."

"So she slid across the floor?"

Abby shook her head, gold curls bouncing on her shoulders. Sam felt his breath hitch, felt torn by the little girl's grief over her mother.

"Sam," Dean kneed his brother in the back, bringing him out of the trance of Abby's ice blue eyes.

Sam looked up to see that Steve was returning from the kitchen. "Sorry, but I had to take that," he apologized for the second time that morning.

"That's okay, we were just leaving, right Sam?" Dean looked pointedly at his brother who was still kneeling in front of Abby.

"Oh, yeah, right," Sam hastily stood and straightened his jacket. "Bye Abby," he added as he joined Dean. The girl looked up to him, almost pleadingly and he felt as though someone were squeezing at his heart, stabbing him with empathetic guilt.

"You have a good afternoon, and good luck with the house," Steve offered as he closed the door behind them, cutting off the view of Abby's gaze.

Dean maintained his cheesy grin up until the second he heard the lock click into place, then he spun on Sam with a scowl. "Dude, you're starting to freak me out. What's going on with you?" he shoved a finger at Sam's chest and craned his neck to look up into his baby brother's face.

"You're just jealous that I'm not scared of kids," Sam returned the scowl and shoved Dean's finger away.

"Sam," Dean took hold of the front of Sam's jacket and prevented him from storming down the hall. Dean might be shorter, but he was all muscle and still stronger then his brother. "You listen to me, you're gonna explain what the hell happened in there, and what happened last night," his tone was low and deadly.

Ordinarily Sam would have puffed up and snapped back, but he didn't feel like arguing, not today. "Look, Dean, let's not do this here, okay? I'm just feeling a little off, maybe I'm coming down with something."

It was a lame excuse and Dean's arched eyebrow revealed that he didn't believe a word of it. "Bullshit, Sam. It's just bullshit." He released Sam's jacket roughly and shoved past him down the hall.

Sam let out his breath in a skyward whoosh, feeling his too-long hair rustle against his forehead. He didn't know how to explain to Dean, how to make his big brother understand that he actually _was _coming down with something: a bad case of an overactive 'shining'.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I'm done with finals, yay! So hopefully I'll have more time to update. This story's just getting warmed up-it's gonna be longer than I expected. To those of you who are reading 'Pure of Heart', don't worry, I'm still working on it, but I'm just more excited about this one.**

**Enjoy!**

Chapter 5

"Yeah, give me a double quarter pounder with cheese, a large fry, medium coke, two apple pies…" Dean paused to turn from the speaker and glance at his brother. "You want anything?" he asked casually, as though he hadn't been on the verge of punching Sam's lights out just thirty minutes before.

Sam nodded in the negative and slumped against the door, resting his forehead against the cool glass. It never ceased to amaze him how Dean seemed to have fast food radar or how the elder Winchester was forever hungry. Personally, Sam didn't have much of an appetite at the moment and he was still a bit perturbed at his brother. It wasn't that Dean was out of line, Sam had to admit that he _had _been acting ten different kinds of weird, but it irked him to no end that he couldn't count on his sixth sense being taken seriously by the older man.

Dean gave a 'whatever' shrug and leaned back out the window to inform the McDonald's employee that his order was complete. Sam tuned out the flirtatious banter that signaled Dean's exchange of cash for food and barely registered the faint warmth of the bag that was dropped unceremoniously on his lap. He watched the city-planted crepe myrtles whiz past as they pulled back out onto the road and didn't snap from his trance until he noticed that Dean had pulled up in front of a low brick building.

"Where are we?" he blinked away the film that had formed over his eyes and straightened in his seat.

"Library," Dean responded, opening his door with a squeak. "We need to do a little research on the house's history."

Sam opened his own door and unrolled his long frame into a standing position. He sighed, gathering himself for the conversation that he hated to begin and folded his arms on the Impala's roof. "Dean," he said quietly and waited for a response.

Dean had been surveying the building before them with minimal interest and allowed his eyes to wander across the top of the car. He was immediately fixed by Sam's intent, dark gaze and swallowed reluctantly, making his hazel eyes as impassive as possible. "What Sam?" he asked slowly, cringing inwardly at the impending chick-flick moment.

Sam allowed his eyes to roll around evasively for several seconds, collecting his thoughts, then settled them on Dean's sharp features. "Do you remember back in Lawrence, when I asked Missouri if she was sure the ritual had worked?"

"Yeah," Dean said guardedly.

"She said 'yes' but I knew she was wrong. Somehow…I…I could feel that there was something still in the house. I could sense a presence." He paused, waiting for the laughter or wisecrack, but was met instead by a narrowing of Dean's eyes.

"You never told me that, Sam," there was a slight hint of hurt in his voice.

Sam sighed. "I didn't think you would believe me."

"Believe you?" Dean's brows knitted together and his lips pulled away from his teeth in a frustrated grimace. "All the crazy shit we've seen and you thought I wouldn't believe you? Dude, you keep all these secrets from me and then when the shit hits the fan you expect me to pick up the pieces! That's not how it goes! How can I help you if you don't tell me?" There was pain in his voice, pain that sparkled in his eyes.

"I'm telling you now," Sam said levelly.

There was an awkward silence as Dean processed this new information and Sam prayed for acceptance. He really couldn't take much more stress at the moment and he needed his brother's support more that ever.

Finally, Dean swallowed and offered a ghost of a grin. "So, what does the shining tell you about this house, huh?"

Sam was so relieved he thought his knees might give way and he leaned against the car for support. "Well, there's something there, something powerful. It's like back in Kansas, where there was more than one spirit, only stronger…" he shook his head, unable to come up with a proper explanation.

Dean nodded and pursed his lips. "Alright, okay. Let's just concentrate on research for the moment and we'll worry about psychic stuff later." He raised his eyebrows expectantly and Sam nodded in response. "Attaboy," he added, reaching back into the car.

Sam cleared his throat and his cheeks blossomed with hints of pink. "Dean, look. I know I should have told you, but…"

"Nah, it's cool," Dean allowed the apology to roll off his shoulders with a shrug. "Let's just go."

Sam just nodded, relieved, and watched his brother proceed to stuff the pockets of his leather jacket with his burger and fries. He laughed and relished in the emotional release of the action. "You can't wait 'till we come out?"

"It'll get cold," Dean gave a girly little pout as he folded the last edge of the wrapper out of sight and the two brothers made their way up the sidewalk toward the library.

-O-

Manchester's library was just like that of every other city across the country. There was a desk at the front, a row of computers along the back wall, several clusters of tables, and row upon row of shelves. "Ah, can't you just smell the boredom?" Dean asked as they slipped past the desk full of librarians to the computer station.

Sam rolled his eyes as he pulled out a chair and plopped down into it. "I'm gonna look up the real estate history of the house, see who's owned it in the past," he informed Dean as the screen lit up before him.

"Guess that leaves me with mysterious disappearances," Dean sighed. He tapped the keyboard and snuck out a fry as he waited for the programs to boot up.

Ten minutes later, Sam had compiled a complete timeline of one eleven Cyprus court and had printed out his findings. "Okay," he began, arranging the crisp sheets of paper. "The house was built in 1890 for a Mr. Michael Monroe. He owned it until his death in 1902 when it passed to his son, Randall." He flicked a glance to ensure that Dean was paying attention and was just in time to see a massive glob of ketchup drip onto the neighboring keyboard from his brother's quarter pounder.

Sam chose to ignore the muttered "Oh shit," and continued. "Randall sold the house two years later to an elderly British couple…let's see…and they held on to it for five years. When they died it went up for auction and was bought by Simon Black who…Aha!" He leaned forward and gripped the paper excitedly. "There's a void here. Three years after Black bought the house it was repossessed bythe state due to, and I quote, 'owner absence'."

"Hmmm," Dean mumbled around a mouthful of burger. "It could be," he paused to swallow. "Nothing."

"Or it could be the answer we're looking for," Sam insisted. "No one has owned or lived in the house for longer than about two weeks ever since then. In fact, it's been empty for about fifteen years now."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "So maybe the house started acting up around then. I found over twenty missing person's reports in 1910 and 1911. They were all girls, or young women actually and they were all last seen at Myrtle Park. Only problem, though, I have no idea where this park is and it doesn't have anything to do with the house." He concluded his report and polished off the last bite of greasy, heart-clogging goodness.

Sam sighed. "Still, I think this Simon Black fella' could be the key, maybe he was the first victim…" he trailed off as he noticed the approaching rat-a-tat-tat of high heels. He glanced over his shoulder quickly to see a woman who looked fifty-ish stalking towards them, wool dress swaying ominously.

"Young man!" her whispered hiss was actually quite commanding and Sam glanced at Dean who was chewing as fast as he could.

"Young man," she said again. "Are you aware that there is no eating allowed in this library?"

Dean swallowed hastily, nearly choked, and spun around to face the woman with a forced smile. "Oh of course, ma'am," he said brightly. "I would never disobey such an important rule."

She folded her arms huffily and began tapping one toe rhythmically against the tile floor. "Then how do you explain that?" she pointed one red fingernail at the matching blob of ketchup staining her keyboard and Dean couldn't stifle his audible gulp.

"Um…well…you see, ma'am," he stammered, flashing a weak grin. "I have a blood sugar condition and I…"

"Get out of my library!" she commanded, her normal tone seeming like a shout in the hushed building. Several kids at a nearby table looked up curiously at the commotion and Dean attempted to swipe away the offensive condiment splotch.

"Ma'am," he tried again, but she pointed to the door, eyes livid behind her half-moon spectacles.

"Fine," he sighed, shoving up out of the chair. "I'll be outside Sam," he muttered before making his way out of the library.

Sam barely stifled a laugh as his badass brother was chased out by a librarian.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Twenty minutes later, Sam emerged from the library to find Dean reclining across the hood of the Impala, head resting against the windshield. Sam's footfalls were soft as he strode across the parking lot, and should have been drowned out by the rush of passing traffic, but Dean's fine-tuned hunter instincts were instantly alerted to his brother's approach and he sprung to a seated position.

"So?" he asked grumpily, rubbing a hand across his unshaven, bristly jaw.

"So," Sam matched his brother's tone as he dropped a stack of papers on the hood. "I printed out all the missing person's reports, all the girls you pulled up. Then I looked up Myrtle Park." He pulled a sheet from the top of the stack and handed it to Dean. "The park's name relates to the fifty or so crepe myrtle trees planted along the border of a large field."

"Oh, right in here?" Dean, after having turned the paper this way and that with crinkled, confused brows, had finally discerned that it was a map of the park and indicated a large, open space in the middle with an index finger.

"Yeah," Sam peered over his shoulder and traced the field's border with his own finger. "This is the tree line and beyond that is nothing but woods."

"Let me guess," Dean arched a knowing eyebrow. "All our disappearing girls used to frequent the park. They would be easy pickings for some sicko hiding out here in the trees."

"That's what I figure," Sam agreed. "But there's more."

"More?"

Sam grimaced. "This park is state owned, has been for the past hundred years, and it backs up to private property: one-eleven Cyprus Court."

-O-

"Anything?" Sam called as he narrowly avoided tripping over a rather large, exposed tree root. He and Dean had spent the past hour traipsing through the forest surrounding Myrtle Park, hoping to find something out of the ordinary.

"No, not yet," Dean called back with a frown at his homemade EMF meter. The device hadn't so much as chirped since he'd turned it on and he was growing steadily more frustrated.

"Maybe you should have bought a _real_ one," Sam complained, toeing a rotten log.

"Hey," Dean cradled the former busted-up Walkman protectively. "It _is_ real."

As though speaking in its own defense, the EMF suddenly buzzed to life, its red lights blossoming with color.

"Aha! She never lets me down," Dean grinned. "Have a little faith, Sam." He took several slow steps forward and the crackling/whirring/chirping hum in his headphones became louder with each one. He stopped when the needle hit the high mark and all of the lights were ablaze. "I think we've hit the jackpot," he murmured, waving his brother over.

"Dean, look where we are," Sam instructed and Dean's head snapped up to see the back of their temporary residence through the trees.

"Sam?"

"What?" Sam's voice was soft and almost strained.

"Those girls that went missing, were their bodies ever found?"

"No."

Dean pulled off the headphones and placed the EMF to the side. He accepted the spade that Sam offered wordlessly and began to dig. The soil was soft, but laced with endless roots, making it tough work. They took turns, and despite the cool temperatures, ended up shedding all of their outer layers and were down to T-shirts. As the sun dipped low on the horizon, they had yet to find anything.

It was Dean's turn to rest, and the older Winchester sat on a tree stump, resting his forearms on his thighs with his hands hanging limply. He watched Sam dig, watched the muscles stretch and bunch beneath the worn cotton and watched them quiver also. He saw the sweat bead up on his brother's brow, much heavier than his own perspiration, and noticed the pale, waxy hue of his skin.

"Sam," he called softly. "Come sit down, man. I'll take over."

Sam straightened and turned to face his brother, features drawn tighter than normal. A stiff breeze came whistling through the forest and raised goose bumps on Dean's bare arms. But it never reached Sam's shaggy hair, never touched a single strand, and the realization of this sent a fresh batch of chills across Dean's skin.

"Sam, did you hear me?"

There was still no response and Dean rose with worry. "Sam?"

The younger man's mouth opened fractionally and his jaw twitched in a visible effort to communicate. Finally, he managed to croak out something that sounded like "How," before falling silent once more.

"How?" Dean took the three strides necessary to bring him to the edge of the waist-deep pit in which his brother was standing. "How what, Sam? You're not making any sense here."

Sam's eyes were unfocused and he didn't raise his head at Dean's words. He was swaying now, ever so slightly, and his lips began to twitch soundlessly.

"Hey, earth to dip-shit!" Dean shouted, reaching down to thump Sam in the chest. He hadn't hit him hard; at least he thought he hadn't. But he couldn't help but feel responsible when his younger brother's eyes rolled skyward and his body began to fold in on itself.

"Oh Jesus, Sam! Sammy!" Dean dropped to his knees and lunged forward to catch Sam, but it was too late. The younger Winchester crashed to the damp, upturned ground and remained there.

-O-

He hadn't wanted to say anything, but Sam had felt it the moment he began to dig. It was as though a bag of sand had been draped across his shoulders, weighing him down, restricting his airway. He knew there was nothing there, nothing physical anyway, and so on he toiled, feeling weaker with every spadeful of dirt he tossed aside.

What would Dean say? He sure as hell wouldn't be sympathetic to some imagined burden. In fact, he'd probably laugh, call Sam a dip-shit or something.

So no, he couldn't say anything, he couldn't admit that he could feel that every last ounce of energy within him was being tapped by some unseen force.

Just when he was about to chalk it all up to a premature, stress-related heart attack, he felt it. Ice cold fingers latched on to his wrist, then his elbow. He looked, but there was nothing there. Still, he couldn't deny the vice-like grip that prevented his arm from swinging.

"Sam…" his ear was flooded with his own name and the papery thin voice sent chills down his spine.

"Sam, help us…" He gritted his teeth and drove the spade deeper into the ground, willing the voice to silence.

"Sam…"

_Stop it. Stop it. Stop it! _He chanted over and over in his mind.

"Sam…"

_No no no no…_

"Sam." This time the voice was deeper tinged with a slight huskiness and fair amount of authority. It was a familiar voice, one that belonged to…Dean! Yes, that was it, Dean. Dean, his big brother, he could help, he could make the other voices go away. Sam turned to look at his brother, turned to plead for help, but couldn't seem to make his mouth move.

"Dean can't help us, not like you can," the vaporous voice whispered again and Sam was puzzled.

"How…" he wanted to ask how the owner of the voice knew his brother's name, or his own name for that matter, but the words were too many for his befuddled brain. The icy fingers still gripped his arm and as he watched Dean approach, he glimpsed the house behind him.

The house. It was like something suddenly clicked inside his mind. The house was right there, so close to them, and he'd felt this way inside. The voice was definitely female; female like the twenty odd people who disappeared in the park behind the manor a hundred years ago. It all made sense to him now, everything was connected to the house, and he had to figure out how. But he couldn't do anything in this state, in this twilight realm between the worlds of the living and dead.

But there was Dean, standing in front of him, saying something, calling him a dip-shit actually. Sam could hear the uncertainty in his brother's voice, feel the underlying panic that coursed through the older man's veins. Sam wanted to comfort him, tell him that everything would be okay, but he didn't know if that was the truth. He could see the dancing; flickering shapes at the edges of his diminishing vision and knew what he had to do. With one last earth shattering breath, he gave in to the world of the unconscience and let the blackness claim him.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"How." It was a simple enough word; the beginning to all sorts of questions. But of course, maybe it was merely the first syllable of a larger, much more meaningful word, a word like "house". Yes, house. Surely Sam had meant "house" to be his final words before passing out. Surely he had known that he was about to faint and wanted to go to the house to lie down.

These were the logical conclusions of Dean Winchester as he hauled his baby brother's lifeless form from the pit they had spent the past hour digging. Sam wasn't what you would call buff, but his exceptionally tall frame was laced with hard muscle and he proved to be much heavier than he looked. Dean dug his boot heels into the forest floor, looped his hands under his brother's arms and across his chest, and strained for several brutal seconds before Sam lay at his feet.

"Sam! Come on Sammy, snap out of it!" Dean knelt down and patted his cheek rather forcefully. Sam remained motionless, his breath coming in shallow little huffs, dark shocks of tousled hair contrasting sharply with the pale skin of his forehead.

"Sam," Dean's hands moved to his brother's shoulders and he shook them roughly. "Hey, remember when I called ya dip-shit? Bet that made ya real mad, huh? Mad enough to hit me?" He raised one of Sam's arms and waved it hopefully, willing the limb to spring to life and make a swipe at him. But it just hung there, limp as a dead fish.

Dean sighed deeply, nostrils flaring, and rolled the options around in his mind. He could call 9-1-1, but what good would that do? Sam wasn't having a seizure and he wasn't actually sick as far as Dean knew. Not to mention the EMTs would have way too many questions as to why two brothers were living in a deserted mansion with no furniture. He decided that his best bet was to get Sam somewhere warm and dry and see if he could rouse him.

"Guess you're gonna make me carry your ass," he grumbled as he positioned Sam so that he would be easier to lift. He opted for a fireman's carry and, with some difficulty, managed to heft the younger man over his right shoulder. Dean prided himself for being the stronger of the two boys, but he was beginning to second-guess that notion as he swayed and staggered the twenty or so yards to the house. He tripped once and nearly went down, just barely catching himself with his free hand on a sapling. The young tree bowed under their combined weights and Dean could feel Sam begin to slide down his shoulder.

"Oh no you don't," he gasped, heaving forward and wrapping both arms around his brother's legs and hips to hold him in place. Sam's long, unconscious arms dangled down Dean's back and his hands slapped against the elder's rump with every step.

"I hope to God you're asleep up there, cause if you're not, and you're still hittin' me in the ass, I'm gonna kill you!" Dean hissed as he at last reached the porch steps.

It took several frustrating moments to extricate the key from his back pocket and unlock the door, but he managed to do so without dropping Sam and with only minor swearing. Once inside, he nearly jogged the last few feet across the kitchen and into the living room. Their sleeping bags from the night before were still unfurled on the floor and he laid Sam down as gently as possible, making sure to stuff a rolled up blanket under his head.

Now unburdened, Dean leaned back on his heels and drew in several deep, steadying breaths. "You're heavy as hell, little bro," he sighed, working the kinks out of his shoulders.

Sam couldn't have cared less. He lay there, eyes darting to and fro beneath the closed lids, brows drawn together in a troubled expression. He was still deathly pale and the sweat continued to pour from his hairline.

Dean tried several more times to rouse his brother, but each attempt was just as unsuccessful as the first. He rolled his lower lip between his teeth and glanced quickly around the room, recalling the events of the night before. Sam had definitely been off his game then, and Dean should have paid more attention. He wanted to kick himself for not asking Sammy if everything was okay. He was the big brother; it was his job to look after Sam.

But it wasn't the same as when they were kids. Back then, Dean could jump in front of the villain, be it schoolyard bully or vengeful spirit, and shield his brother from harm. But now it was different; Sam was different. He had power, psychic power, and that knowledge scared the hell out of Dean. If the evil things they hunted could come after Sam in his dreams, there was no way big brother could come to the rescue. In this Sam was alone, and Dean had never wanted him to be alone.

Alone. Alone like when Dad had vanished into the night and Sam was away at school. Alone like right this very minute as he paced a circle around his brother's sleeping bag, sprinkling salt as he went.

It was the fear that if Sam never woke up he would remain alone forever that spurred Dean to pull his cellphone out of his back pocket. He flipped it open and dialed, and prayed for an answer. It rang once…twice…

-O-

The instant Sam's body crumpled to the floor of the pit he snapped open his eyes to find himself standing outside of it. It struck him as odd that he was looking down at himself, all curled up on the ground. Dean was there, shouting his name and trying to shake him awake, but the sounds were muffled as though his ears were packed with cotton. He tried to call out to his brother, to assure him that he was alright, but Dean didn't seem to hear him.

"Sam," the female voice pierced the sound barrier as clear as daylight and Sam recognized it as the one he'd heard mere moments before. But there was something different about it, a certain depth to it as though many women were speaking in perfect unison.

He turned from the vision of Dean shaking his limp shoulders and was met by the sight of a girl, or young woman rather, standing just inches from his face. Startled, he stumbled backward and felt the pull of her hand on his arm. This time, in this state, her death grip was not quite warm, but lacked the painfully cold burn of before.

"Come with us Sam," she whispered, and this time he was sure that more than one voice came billowing from her vocal chords. He squinted, unable to bring her face into focus. It was as if she was shifting, changing slightly every couple of seconds or so and it baffled him.

She was blonde, then brunette, then redheaded. Tall, then short; thin, then plump; green eyes then brown and her appearance morphed with every flicker of her crackling form. It was like watching a TV with rabbit ears that couldn't decide which channel to pick up.

"Who…who are you?" he asked, attempting to wrench his arm from her grasp.

Her full, then thin; red, then pink lips parted and she moaned in a chorus of sorrow. "Help us!" she cried and then suddenly released Sam in a flurry as she spun and raced toward the house.

"Wait!" Sam called and took off through the trees after her. His long legs carried him swiftly across the debris-littered forest floor but he couldn't catch up to the girl. As he emerged from the tree line he glimpsed the tail of her fluttering white dress slip into the side door. He knew there was no way a corporeal, living woman could outrun him and he lengthened his stride in frustration. Leaping up the porch steps, he found the door closed and paused to catch his breath.

Sam leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees, allowing his diaphragm to draw in the cool night air and relieve the burning in his lungs. Sighing, he drank in one last swallow of sweet oxygen and straightened just in time to spy the shadow that passed in front of the door's window. With a fair amount of trepidation, he turned the knob and shouldered his way into the kitchen.

Surprisingly, he found the room bathed in the glow of a lantern that was perched atop an overturned box on the floor. It was the same room in which he and Dean had snacked away the wee hours of the morning, but it was even more desolate if that was possible. Aside from the cabinets and two other boxes besides the one with the lantern, it was completely empty.

Sam suddenly became aware of distinct footfalls coming from somewhere overhead and felt his body tense involuntarily. The creaks and groans of the second story floorboards were identical to the sounds the house had been making all along, and they were moving in the direction of the staircase.

As the sounds clearly began to descend the steps, Sam searched the room frantically for something that could be used as a weapon. The drawers and cabinets were all empty and he wished he were still wearing his jacket; the one with the Bowie knife tucked in the pocket. But at this point it didn't matter, all the wishing in the world couldn't prevent the man who suddenly appeared in the doorway from entering the room.

He was a tall man, with a hooked nose and greasy, black hair. His bushy, jet brows matched an equally untamed mustache that completely covered his upper lip, giving him the appearance of an anorexic walrus. The upward lighting of the lantern, which created odd, eerie shadows beneath the glittering specks that were his eyes, negatively enhanced his skeletal features.

At the stranger's entrance, Sam automatically adopted a defensive stance, fists ready to block and punch. But the man paid him no mind, in fact, Sam realized that he couldn't be seen at all. The man passed mere inches from Sam, close enough for the young Winchester to catch a whiff of gin on his breath and to notice his odd clothing. He wore a long black coat and pants and his white undershirt sported a rather old fashioned looking collar.

The man in black circled the room, sweeping in every crevice and shadow of the room with a critical eye, and finally lowered himself onto one of the boxes. Once seated, he withdrew something long from his coat and raised it to the light. Sam immediately recognized the glint of metal and watched as the man rotated the hatchet slowly in his hands. Then, with a fierce snarl, he raised his hand and sunk the blade of the tool deep into the hardwood floor. A half-empty bottle of gin seemed to materialize from the depths of his coat and he tilted it up to his lips.

"He told us to call him Simon," Sam was startled by the whispered words of the flickering girl and turned to find her at his side. She looked at him forlornly, eyes turning every color in the book beneath dynamic brows.

"Who is he?" Sam asked quietly once he realized that the man could not hear them.

"Everyone knows him as Black, but he told us to call him Simon," the haunting conglomeration of voices strained with fear at the mention of his name.

Something stirred in Sam's brain and then finally clicked. "Simon Black? He owned this house in 1909!" His mind was racing now; connecting all of the pieces of this seriously screwed up puzzle. "All of those girls…I mean, all of you…did he…was he the one who…"

He trailed off when he noticed the tears coursing down her shattered cheeks and knew that he'd struck a chord. "He…hurt you, didn't he?" he asked gently.

"He killed us!" her scream was unexpected and threatened to burst his eardrums.

No sooner had her cry of despair dulled to a ringing in his ears than a second scream sounded. This one was made by a regular, singular voice, and it came from somewhere upstairs. Black lowered the bottle, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and rose, yanking up the hatchet with him. Sam noticed the way his mustache curled upwards in what was no doubt a maniacal grin.

-O-

**First off, thanks to all of my fabulous reviewers! I never expected this kind of response to this story, so needless to say I'm thrilled. I hate to say that I have left you all with yet another cliffhanger, but my writing time is limited. I'm moving this weekend and don't know when I'll have the internet hooked up at the new house, so you'll just have to live in suspense for the time being. But, I'll probably have an update by sometime next week, so keep your eyes peeled.**

**I hope everyone had a wonderful New Year, and until next time, happy writining!**

**Uzi.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Man, moving is a serious pain in the ass, ya know? My truck still has a few random odds and ends rolling around beneath the seats (shoe polish, curling irons, you catch my drift…) Thanks to everyone for their reviews, as always, and special thanks for your good luck wishes. I'm glad to be back and writing, but I must warn you, I will be very busy and can't guarantee when I'll post. I'll try not to leave you with anymore of those horrendous cliffhangers. Well, maybe, don't quote me on that…**

**Anyway, here's the story. Feel free to read, enjoy, and then of course review!**

Chapter 8

After the fifth ring, Dean's thumb was inching across the keypad of his phone to hit the "disconnect" button, when it suddenly picked up and his ear was flooded with a familiar, deep female voice.

"Hello Dean."

When his attempts to shake/slap/pinch Sam awake from his current comatose state had proven unsuccessful, Dean had decided that his brother's condition was much more serious than a sissified, girly swoon and had reached out to the only person who might be able to help. He knew that Missouri Mosley was a psychic and that she possessed all of the abilities that the title entailed, but he was never the less caught off guard by her greeting. He stood still for several moments, mouth working silently as he tried to remember why he had dialed her in the first place.

"Boy, you'd better close your mouth before you catch a fly." Her words were scolding but tone was warm, in a comforting, mother-hen manner.

"How…did you know it was me?" he finally managed, pressing his lips together firmly with slight embarrassment.

Her sigh seemed to come up from her toes, fill her lungs, and go rushing through the phone line. "Dean Winchester, I thought that _you_ of all people should understand my gift, not to mention your _brother's _abilities…"

He gritted his teeth and tried to force down the grunt of frustration that was building in his throat as she continued to reprimand him. A low moan came from the sleeping bag at his feet and Dean shot a troubled glance at his brother. Sam had shifted onto his side and his legs were twitching back and forth, almost as if he were walking.

"Dean?" Missouri suddenly became quiet, voice tinged with concern. "Baby, what's wrong with your brother?"

Dean's forehead crinkled up in a brief moment of bewilderment as he realized that she had once again used "the force" on him. He cleared his throat and licked his lips a little nervously. "He…actually I don't know what's wrong with him," he admitted, beginning to pace the room again. "We're in New Hampshire at this old spooky ass house…"

"Watch your mouth!"

He sighed. "Anyway, Sam's been acting a little off since we got here; quieter than usual and kinda out of it." He thought back to Sam's quirky, distracted behavior and once again found himself wanting to kick his own ass for not being a more attentive big brother.

"Uh-huh," Missouri prodded gently and Dean realized that he'd fallen silent.

"He…"Dean winced, feeling completely lame for what he was about to say. "He said he felt something, a presence I guess. He said it was like what he felt back in our old house, only stronger, more intense."

"Oh gracious, I should have seen this coming," she sighed, sounding weary with herself. "How long has Sam been unconscious?"

Yet again amazed at her mystical, omniscient powers, Dean rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace. "Just over forty-five minutes. But he's still moving around a little bit, and whining like a bitch as always."

He knew he shouldn't have cursed, he really did, but it just came so easily, and desperate times called for desperate language. But unfortunately, Missouri didn't see any excuse for such talk and Dean knew that despite his hurry, no good could come from stemming her flow of scoldings and admonitions. Just as she was saying something about soap and his mouth (honestly, did she expect him to pay attention?) a different sound reached Dean's ears. It was a sort of whistling rustle, like the parting of silk, and Dean instantly recognized it.

The phone clattered to the floor as he instinctively dropped to his belly, the top of his head narrowly avoiding contact with a whirling blur of gray that hurtled through the air and across the room. The heavy mantelpiece halted the object and Dean glanced up, knowing what he would find there. He'd heard the sound so many times on the hunt. Dad had always taught him to hold on to your weapon at all costs, but sometimes, a man just had to throw his knife…or in this case, hatchet.

As he had expected, his eyes were greeted by the sight of a hatchet buried deep in the stained wood, handle still quivering.

"What the hell?" he pushed himself up from the floor and scanned the room quickly, searching for a source of the thrown weapon, but found none. He could faintly hear the tiny squeakings of Missouri from the phone at his feet and wondered why she hadn't been able to "see" it coming. "Sorry, Ma'am. Guess I'll have to call you back," he whispered distractedly as he crossed the room.

-O-

Sam couldn't be sure of Simon Black's intentions, but he had a damn good idea. The man's coattails swirled and blended with the shadows of the manor as he strode through the cavernous living room toward the staircase and the blade of the hatchet glinted with light captured from the flames in the fireplace.

According to the startling bundle of apparitions that had sucked Sam into this alternate reality flashback, Black had killed all twenty of the girls that had gone missing in the early nineteen hundreds. If this were true, then there was no doubt that the scream he had heard moments before had come from the terrified lips of yet another victim. So despite the fact that he was non-corporeal in this state, Sam had gone after the man, hoping to prevent another murder and perhaps make some sense of everything that was happening to him.

Black took the stairs two at a time with Sam hot on his heels just as another shriek pierced the darkness of the mansion. The hall stretched endlessly before them as they reached the top step.

Sam began to feel the same horrific dread he'd experienced the first time he'd ventured down the upstairs hall, but this time he understood it for what it was. He was sensing the emotions of the poor, brutalized girls who had been dragged down this very hall, knowing they faced certain death at the hands of this monster. He found that he was walking up on the balls of his feet, ready to pounce like the hunter his father had trained him to become.

Black came to an abrupt halt, nearly invisible in the darkness, and Sam thought he glimpsed a flicker of movement. A thin sliver of light that began to widen appeared to their right and Sam immediately recognized the door that had been opened.

The door led to the room that had been Abby's during the Connors' short stay at the house; the room where Linda Connor had disappeared and just the night before Sam and his brother had opened fire on an "inanimate" toy.

As the door opened fully, Sam could see a flickering lantern perched on the only piece of furniture in the whole house, a rickety, cracked table. There were objects on the table, objects that captured the single flame of the lantern and glittered it into a thousand tiny reflections.

"They're pretty, aren't they?" the synthesized voice of the plural girl whispered sadly, nearly causing Sam to jump. When he'd taken off after Black, she had disappeared, but had now returned to his side.

"What are they?" he asked, taking a step into the room behind the killer.

"They are his playthings."

Sam couldn't control the shivers that went shooting down his spine at her words. He watched as Black moved to the table and placed the hatchet down, only to pick up one of the "playthings". It was then that Sam recognized the shiny objects for what they were. There was an odd assortment of knives, some kitchen some hunting, a length of chain, a corkscrew, and a hack saw.

Black was holding one of the particularly sharp knives and Sam felt his stomach lurch involuntarily. Murder was always inexcusable, but torture? This guy was seriously fucked up.

Sam wanted to tackle the guy, knock him to the floor and pound the shit out of him, then maybe show him a little taste of his own steel…But it was no use, he could do nothing and was forced to watch helplessly as Black crossed the room to the closet, a sickening grin on his face. He turned the knob and jerked the door open roughly. There was a woman huddled back against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees in a weak hope at protection. She began to whimper as Black grabbed a hunk of her honey hair and began to drag her from the closet.

"Let her go, bastard!" Sam shouted, knowing that it would do no good. But he was shocked when the victim suddenly ceased struggling against her captor and snapped her head up, blue eyes boring into Sam's. He instantly recognized her from the black and white photo he'd seen in the paper: it was Linda Connor.

"What are you looking at?" Black hissed, shaking Linda's head to the side. He ignored her yelp of pain as he turned to glance behind him. Sam saw his dark eyes widen in surprise and realized that by some terrible stroke of bad luck, he could now be seen by the murderer. Black tossed Linda aside roughly and made for the hatchet he'd laid down just seconds before.

"No!" Sam shouted and heard a wailing female chorus echo his cry.

-O-

By the time Dean reached the hatchet, the handle had ceased quivering and the air around him was quiet.

_Too quiet_ he thought, hating the cliché but not wanting to think of a better comment. He reached out slowly; dimly aware of the muffled chatter that poured from the phone. His fingertips were mere millimeters away from the handle; eyes focused on the grain of the wood, when…

"No!"

Dean spun around so fast he thought he might topple over at Sam's sudden outburst.

"Sammy?" fear and relief and doubt all mingled together beneath the surface of Dean's stern façade as he rushed to his brother's side. "Sam? You alright?" his hazel eyes glittered in the dim light as he pressed his face close to Sam's, their noses almost touching.

The younger Winchester was pale and definitely shaken, but he was awake and breathing, if not somewhat heavily. "Dean," it was nearly a croak and he licked his dry lips hastily.

"What? What are ya trying to say, man?" Dean rocked back slightly, giving the other man some space and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Sam gulped several times in an attempt to wet his throat. "D-d-duck," he finally managed.

"What?" but Dean didn't have to wonder for long as his ears became aware of a whistling sound, almost like that caused by a hatchet flying through the air…

-O-

**Alas, I've done it again, another cliffie. But please, don't shoot the author just yet. Please have some sympathy for a college student balancing life, work, and school, okay? I promise I'll try to update soon and please don't forget to review!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Because you guys are soooooo great and give me such awesome reviews, I updated sooner than expected. But despite what you might think, I didn't have this chap stuffed under my pillow : ) I wrote it in about two hours, so forgive me if its boring, full of mistakes, or just plain crappy. Enjoy, and drop me a line.**

**Uzi**

Chapter 9

For the second time that night, Dean found himself dropping to the floor to avoid a rather nasty scalping. But this time he pulled the now upright Sam with him, wrapping his arms protectively around the younger man's head as the hatchet whirled above them. It stuck into the exposed drywall with a _thunk_, the atmosphere still singing in its wake.

"What the shit?" Dean exclaimed, voice ringing through the empty room. He gave the hatchet an evil glare before rocking back on his heels and pushing Sam up to a seated position. "Dude, you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked with motherly concern, giving Sam a quick visual once over.

Sam sighed and swatted away Dean's hand, the one that kept alternating from two to three raised fingers. "Hysterical, Dean," his voice still sounded a little hoarse, but his eyes flashed with a very Sam-like impatience at his brother's sense of humor. "But yeah, I'm fine."

"Good to hear, Sleeping Beauty. In the mean time, I've been battling mystic voodoo hatchet over there." Dean folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow in a demand for an explanation.

Sam's cleared his throat and glanced over at the lifeless weapon rooted in the wall. "It must be Black."

Dean smirked humorlessly. "No actually it's silver, and the handle's brown…"

"Shut up," Sam snapped. "I meant that it must be _Simon_ Black who's controlling this thing, or at least his spirit anyway. That's his hatchet, I saw him holding it right before…"

"Hold up, you _saw_ him?"

With a little sigh of impatience ", Work with me here, Dean. When I passed out, for lack of a better word, I had some sort of out of body experience or something. Anyway, I was in the house, back in 1910." He licked his lips. "Dean, Simon Black tortured and killed all of those girls you looked up. Their spirits are all here, and they're not happy."

"Gee College boy, ya think?" Dean wished he hadn't let his sarcasm bubble up, but his patience for this case was wearing thin. Deciding not to be a total ass, he offered a hand to Sam and halfway hauled his baby brother to a standing position.

Sam rolled his eyes, but tilted his head in silent thanks as he struggled to stay on his feet. His knees felt like Jell-O, before it congealed, and it took all of his remaining strength to keep from toppling back to the ground.

Dean noticed every sway and tremor of the younger Winchester's legs, and despite his casual pose, was ready to jump to the rescue if the need should arise. "So, if you're right, we're talking major ghost infestation here."

"I know I'm right."

"Then we're also talking one helluva bonfire, man," Dean spoke as if they were preparing a song-singing, marshmallow-toasting campfire rather than an inferno of salted bones. "We'd better get back to that gravesite," he clapped Sam on the shoulder and began gathering the few supplies scattered across the floor.

Sam wrinkled up his nose, dreading what he knew to be the truth. "That hole we dug…um…that's not where the bodies are buried."

Dean's face fell completely slack; his hand paused in midair as he collected what remained of their rock salt. "Tell me you're joking, Sam. Tell me I didn't just spend an hour digging a hole for no fucking reason."

"'Fraid so," Sam winced. "But, hey, if we hadn't been out there I wouldn't have been able to…"

"To what, Sam?" Dean slammed the carton of salt to the floor sending up a shower of white crystals. "To have me carry your ungrateful ass all the way back up here?" His eyes were fiery as he straightened and stalked towards his brother.

The set of Dean's jaw would have halted a rhinoceros in its tracks, but Sam stood his ground, arms crossed defiantly. "Oh, sorry Dean. My mistake. I guess I forgot to thank you while I was busy saving your _life_."

"Yeah, you're always there for me, huh little brother?" Dean spat. "If your damn shining is so great, why the fuck didn't you tell me there was nothing there?"

Sam's eyes flinched ever so slightly. "It's more complicated than you know."

At those words, Dean's lips peeled back in a snarl of a grin. "Oh, that's right, Dean's too stupid to understand what's going on. After all, he didn't go to college like super smart Sammy over here!" He opened his arms as if showing Sam off to a group of spectators, his grin bordering on down right evil.

"Dean, I didn't mean…"

"Save it," Dean barked and began to pace, his footfalls echoing loudly.

There were several moments of excruciating silence between them with the clomp of Dean's boots generating the only sound in the entire house. Sam hugged his crossed arms closer to his chest and set his lower lip stubbornly. He knew that he had crossed the line without really meaning to, but now it was too late to take it back. Dean had been insulted; his Winchester pride wounded to the core and it would take more than a couple of cheap Band-Aids to fix it. But damn if Sam should be the one to apologize and play peacemaker, after all it had never been his role in the past. Dean had always been the one to patch things up between his father and brother, somehow managing to stay out of the fray himself.

But as the minutes ticked by Sam realized that their situation could only worsen. So he swallowed the gathering lump in his throat and broke the ice. "Look, I…"

Dean halted and cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Just tell me where the bodies actually are and we'll call a truce, alright?"

Sam's eyebrows shot up in slight disbelief, but he didn't want to risk another argument. "I'm pretty sure Black stuffed them somewhere in the house," he nearly gagged at his own words.

"You saw it?"

"Felt it."

Dean scrubbed a hand across his face, replacing his anger with what he really felt; fatigue. "Okay, so we need to bind the spirits and perform that cleansing ritual Missouri showed us…" His eyes suddenly widened. "Crap! I forgot about her!"

"Who?" Sam asked as he watched his brother retrieve his abandoned cellphone from across the room. But his question was answered by the furious sounds of Missouri Mosley's voice that came pouring from the device. "You called Missouri?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Well, yeah. I needed advice on how to handle your psychic ass," Dean shrugged. He held up the phone gingerly with his thumb and forefinger as if he were afraid it might bite. He couldn't really tell what the woman was ranting about, but he knew he heard his name used multiple times in a rather negative context. "Here, dude," he extended the phone towards Sam with a devilish grin. "It's for you."

-O-

After reluctantly accepting the phone, Sam had spent the past ten minutes or so explaining their current paranormal situation to Missouri. Dean couldn't tell much from the end of the conversation he was hearing; it was composed mostly of "uh-huh"s and "okay"s. Sam had begun to pace, which only made Dean pace, and the two were walking in circles around one another. Dean kept glancing at the hatchet, ensuring that it wasn't about to spring to life again. Deciding that they were relatively safe for the moment and noting that Sam was still deep in conversation, he left the living room in search of a much needed beer.

A thorough search of the fridge revealed that only one Bud Light remained and Dean resolved that he definitely deserved it. He twisted off the top and downed half of it in three gulps, relishing the tang of the alcohol. Smacking his lips on satisfaction, he held the bottle up to the clouded globes of the chandelier and spun it slowly, watching the label shimmer against the amber glass.

It was then that he noticed it; a shadow seemed to pass over his hand and the bottle it held. It was only there for a fraction of a second, in fact, he wasn't even sure if it had ever been there. But once it was gone, the bottle was empty.

"What the fu…" his words were cut short by a loud clatter and he looked down to see the hatchet that had tried to decapitate him twice lying on the table.

-O-

"Sam, if what you feel is true, and there really are twenty spirits in that house, I'm afraid my cleansing ritual won't be strong enough."

Sam grimaced. He'd been afraid that Missouri would say that, but actually hearing the words made their situation seem even bleaker. "What do you think we should do?"

"What do your instincts tell you?" she asked patiently.

Sam chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Well, normally with spirits we salt and burn the bones. So since the bodies were scattered throughout the house, I say we torch the place."

He could swear he could see the African American woman purse her lips appreciatively at the other end of the line. "It sounds good, baby. But there's one problem."

"What?"

"Linda."

Sam put a hand to his forehead. How could he have forgotten? Linda Connor had somehow been sucked into some other dimension within the house and might very well still be alive. He knew that they had to try and free her but hadn't a clue as how to go about it.

"If you burn the house down, Linda will die along with the restless spirits," Missouri pressed.

"Then we'll have to get her out," Sam said resolutely, hoping he could make his words hold true.

"I hope you can, honey. I hope you can."


	10. Chapter 10

AN: I would like to apologize to all of my wonderful readers for not posting in forever. I have been unbelievably busy and writing has taken a backseat to other things. I'm not sure how well I did with this chap, please review and let me know, thx!

Chapter 10

Sam flipped Dean's cell closed with his chin and exhaled deeply. His head still felt thick and fuzzy and he scrubbed a hand through his hair in a hopeless attempt to alleviate the pressure building beneath his scalp. They were most definitely up shit creek without a paddle. Well, that wasn't entirely true he reminded himself. They had his abilities, but they served as more of a twisted old branch that had washed up on shore and only sufficed as a makeshift paddle.

He dismally recalled Missouri's parting words. She had told him to ", Use his gift to try and free Linda" to "Follow his instincts before all else" and that "if his need was great enough, his mind would create a solution to their problem".

_Gift. _Since when was being able to see people die before it actually happened a gift? And why was he suddenly able to communicate with the deceased on their own plane? And why the hell couldn't Missouri have been a little less cryptic and a little more helpful?

"This is just fantastic," he muttered, trying to knead the seemingly permanent worry lines in his forehead. He needed to rest, they both did, in order to tackle this haunting effectively. But Sam realized that rest was far from coming when his ears registered the distinctive crack of a shotgun.

The sound had come from the kitchen and Sam immediately jumped to action, racing toward the next room. "Dean?" he called as he burst through the doorway only to come screeching to a halt.

Dean stood in the middle of the large room still aiming the sawed-off twelve gauge at a spot on the floor where the table had stood only moments before. Said table was now tipped on its side, its surface splintered and chipped from the shotgun shells packed with rock salt.

"Dean!" Sam called again, pushing into the room through a cloud of wood dust and shavings that had come spraying up from the wounded table.

"Get down!" Dean barked, arcing the shotgun up around his brother's head. Sam barely managed to dive out of the way before Dean opened fire again, this time blasting a hole in the sheetrock.

"What the hell's going on?" Sam demanded as he scrambled to his brother's side and surveyed the room with wide eyes.

"It's that goddamn hatchet again!" Dean hissed through clenched teeth as he reloaded the shotgun. His hands executed the familiar task deftly, never requiring the assistance of his eyes that blazed with defiance at the crumbling walls.

Sam realized that he remained crouched at Dean's feet, ready to assume the classic duck and cover pose, and felt more than a little foolish. Carefully, he unfurled his long frame to its full height three inches above Dean's not-so-blonde spikes and winced as his spine creaked in protest. "Dean, it's gone man," he stated the obvious.

"No, ya think?" Dean sneered. "You know Sam, sometimes I wonder about you…"

The younger man snorted a sigh through his nostrils and sucked his lip between his teeth. "Could you just _shut up_ for a minute!" he barked louder than intended, his voice echoing throughout the room.

Dean was positively livid when he snapped around to face Sam, his eyes threatening to burn right out of his skull. Sam waited for the violent retort, for the unoriginal "_You_ shut up!" that he knew the older man was just barely keeping at bay, but it never came. Instead, he finally rolled his shoulders a couple of times and cleared his throat loudly, signaling for Sam to continue.

At any other time Sam would have been too shocked to respond, but the situation was too pressing to pause and contemplate the mystery that was Dean Winchester. "Okay," Sam said tiredly, wiping a hand down his face. "I'm sorry, Dean, I shouldn't…"

Dean had put on that expectant face with slightly arched brows and a sliver of a smile, so Sam decided to skip the undeserved apology. "…Anyway, I said that the hatchet was gone because I _know_ that it's gone, for the moment at least. Somehow, someway, I've become linked to this house and the spirits trapped inside. I can feel their emotions; their pain, their anger…"

"So what are you…?"

"Just hear me out, okay?" Sam tried to keep the desperation that was building in his gut from seeping out through his words. "Missouri seems to think that if I try I can re-enter whatever other plane, dimension thing again and free Linda Connor."

Dean arched his right eyebrow skeptically. "So let me get this straight; she said you can save this woman with your mind powers?"

Sam licked his lips apprehensively. "Well, since Linda wasn't actually killed, some sort of…doorway, if you will, was opened up…"

"And if you can 'reopen' this door…"

"Exactly."

"What about all of our friendly, axe-wielding spirits?"

"Got any lighter fluid?"

"Man, I was hopin' you'd say that."

-O-

"You know, the salt didn't work last time."

Dean sighed heavily at his pesky little brother's words as he drizzled the last of the kerosene across the warped floorboards beneath the stairs. There wasn't much of the stuff, he wasn't sure if there was enough to light up the entire house, but he'd decided not to siphon the gas out of Impala should they need to make a fast getaway. He was pretty sure they would have to haul ass once the neighbors spotted the towering inferno that had once been one-eleven Cyprus Court.

He dropped the empty canteen to the ground and checked one last time that the newspapers were crumpled and spread evenly to act as kindling. Satisfied with his fire building skills, he turned, hands on hips, to face Sam. "Well maybe it'll work this time," he gestured to the extra thick line of salt he'd poured around his brother. "Never met a damn ghost that could cross over salt."

From his position, seated cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, Sam grinned inwardly at his brother's motherly stance. It was all there; the hands, the hips, one leg cocked to the side, finger in the air, and it filled Sam's heart with little warm fuzzies that he hadn't felt in a long time.

"I'm not arguing, just stating the facts," he said with a mild shrug.

Dean nodded, shifted his weight to his other foot and scrubbed at his jaw; he was worried. "You sure about this, Sammy?" his hazel eyes sparked with fierce concern over the task his brother was about to undertake.

Sam had convinced Dean that he might be able to meditate and concentrate long enough to slip back to the place where Simon Black held Linda captive, although he had no idea what course of action to take if he actually succeeded. If he and Linda, against all the laws of physics and gravity and God knows what else, managed to make it back alive, the plan was to set fire to the mansion and get the heck of dodge.

"I'm sure," Sam said much more calmly than he felt. "Are you?" he turned the question back around to Dean with a tilt of his head.

Dean shrugged, not at all concerned for his own well-being. "Yeah, how hard is it to distract a ghost, huh?"

"It might get really rough once they catch on to what we're doing," Sam warned. He paused then his lips twitched into a half smile. "'Course you're pretty damn good at distracting the forces of evil."

"I know," Dean smirked cockily. "It's like I have this aura, dude."

Sam's lips came together in a forlorn expression. "Be careful, Dean," he said before lowering down to the floor.

"You too, baby brother," Dean whispered as he watched Sam's eyes close.

-O-

Missouri's words echoed through Sam's head as he clamped his lids shut.

"_If your need is great enough…your mind will find a solution…"_

_Need…need…need…need…_

Sam could picture Linda Connor trapped in the closet; he could remember the look of horror on her face.

_I have to help her; I need to help her…_

Her face swum before his closed eyes, her tears glittered like diamonds. Sam could feel his chest tighten, his pulse quicken.

_Need…need…need…_

Then suddenly, like a jet of air, the icy tingle raced down his spine and spread across his flesh. A pearl of sweat sprung from every last pore and the voice was there, that horrific symphony of voices that played in exact unison.

"Come to us Sam…"

And he was gone.

-O-

Dean watched helplessly as his brother's body seized and convulsed on the floor. He could see his tension in his biceps and neck. His eyes danced wildly beneath his lids and his breaths came in short, shallow rasps. Just as Dean was about to take the younger man by the shoulders and pull him from the nightmare, everything stopped. Sam's breathing returned to normal, his muscles relaxed and he was dead to the world.

Dean took a protective stance over his brother, rotating his own hatchet he'd brought in from the Impala's trunk slowly in his hands. It was time to enforce his part of the plan.

"Alright, come on out asshole," he called to the empty walls. "Yeah I'm talkin' to you, Simon." A grimace began to spread across his face when there was no response. "Simon; what a lame-ass name. Wasn't that the chipmunk with glasses? Man he was a pussy, huh? Just like you. You gotta go around pickin' on women, can't take a real man, huh? You're such a sorry ass mother f…"

At first Dean didn't hear the knock due to his crescendo of profanity, but the second time it was much louder and more persistent. He paused mid- f bomb and pricked his ears to the sound. Maybe Simon wanted to dance a little after all.

The knock repeated a third time and was accompanied by a muffled voice. Dean couldn't make out the words, but determined that the sounds were definitely coming from the kitchen. He glanced nervously at his motionless brother, weighed the options in his head, and finally began to slink along the wall toward the kitchen.

He moved quietly, barely touching his toes to the floor, and eventually arrived at the threshold of the next room. He peeked his head around ever so slightly to glimpse a human silhouette framed in the small panes of glass on the door.

Whoever or whatever it was knocked again and this time Dean could clearly recognize the voice. "Dean! Sam! Open up, this is Steve Connor. I know you're not who you say you are and the police are on their way!"

_Oh shit…_


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Dean's mind raced as it had never done before, desperately trying to find a way to remove this new thorn in his side; a thorn named Steve Connor.

_Option A: Pretend we're not at home? Naw, no good, he's seen our car in the drive. Option B: The truth? Yeah right. _

_Option C: Well, I guess it wouldn't be right to off the poor bastard right here and now…so it's lookin' like option a or b._

"Boys! I know you're in there! The police are on their way!" Steve's muffled shouts eliminated 'option a' completely and Dean groaned tiredly.

"Just a sec!" he called and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He hated this part of the job; the getting caught part. Crossing the room slowly and deliberately, Dean finally reached the door, unlocked it and opened it to reveal an enraged Steve Connor.

"Heeeey, Steve!" Dean lavished on the fake cheeriness. "What a surprise, won't you come in?"

"Unbelievable!" Steve quaked. "To think that you can just stand there…just…mocking me…I let you in my home…my apartment…my daughters…I can't…" Nothing he was saying could even begin to make sense, it was just infuriated babble. In the midst of his tirade he began waving around a fist full of crumpled papers, no doubt the lease agreement and bank statements informing him that the Hendrixes were two _sisters_ living in L.A.

"Steve, why don't you just calm down and I'll explain everything," Dean dropped the fake smile and adopted a calm, reassuring tone.

A rather large vein began to surface down the side of Steve's temple. "No! I'm not going to _calm down_!" He raised a pointed finger at Dean's chest. "You're gonna get the hell out of my house!"

Dean sighed and squared his jaw. He hated to admit it, but Steve had every right to be more than a little upset. The man had no way of knowing that he and Sam were actually the heroic knights of the story garbed in flannel and denim. To Steve they were simple con-artists. And after all of the trauma the man had endured in the past couple of months, Dean couldn't really blame him for snapping.

"Did you not hear me!" Steve bellowed when Dean remained rooted to the floor, hand still resting on the doorjamb. "GET OUT!" Steve launched himself through the door at Dean, fully intending to pummel the younger man into the floor. Steve was just the tiniest bit taller than Dean, but much thinner and he lacked the younger man's strength, speed, and informal Marine combat training.

Dean easily side-stepped the other man's attack, catching one of his wrists and twisting the attached arm up over his head. Steve yelped in pain and suddenly found himself slammed face first into the wall; both of his hands now crossed behind his back and locked in an iron grip.

"Steve, dude, listen to me. Just take a deep breath and calm down, okay?" Dean said in a less than soothing tone.

Steve was hissing something furious and unintelligible, all the while struggling against his captor.

Dean put his elbow into the older man's back and pressed a little more forcefully. "All I'm trying to do is help you. If you'd quit trying to …"

He was cut off as Steve brought up a leg suddenly, kicking out at anything he could reach. Dean barely managed to avoid the blow and almost lost his hold on the psychopathic homeowner. "Knock it the hell off!" Dean regained his balance and slammed Steve against the wall again. "You're really starting to piss me off!"

Steve slumped against the wall, panting for breath and leaving himself at the mercy of the younger man.

Dean was slightly surprised, but wasted no time. "Look, I know that you have no reason to trust me or believe anything that I'm about to tell you." Oh how convincing he could be. "But I know that you know there's something going on in this house. Something _bad_. Something evil. Sam and I, we do this thing for a living, helping people. We know that this house had something to do with your wife's disappearance."

Steve turned his head marginally, revealing the corner of one wide, disbelieving eye.

"…And you know it too," Dean continued. "We're the good guys here, Steve. My brother says he can get Linda back, and I don't know whether he can or not. But he's risking his own ass to help your family; to save you from the _real_ bad guys."

Dean's ears pricked at the faint sound of approaching sirens. He frowned. "This is it, Steve. You can have us arrested and we'll go quietly, I promise. But, if there's even the tiniest, microscopic part of you that shudders every time you set foot in this house because you know there's no explanation for what happened, you'll tell the cops to beat it. If you ever want to see Linda again, you'll let us go." Dean suddenly released Steve as the sirens drew closer and backed away, waiting for a response.

Steve's arms fell limply to his sides and he turned around, all the fight drained from his system. He was visibly shaking now, lip trembling beneath his skewed glasses. He straightened the frames awkwardly. "I…I…I don't…how can you…Linda?"

As Steve struggled to pull himself together, a blue and white state patrol cruiser rolled into view just beyond the glass-paned kitchen door. The older man followed Dean's gaze to the car, and the uniformed officer behind the wheel, and paled.

"So what's it gonna be Steve?" Dean asked sharply, training his twin hazel fires on the homeowner.

Steve gulped, Adam's apple sticking in his throat, and mopped his brow with the back of his sleeve. Dean could read the creases that had formed between his eyes, and knew the other man was weighing his options heavily. Finally, just as the cop levered his portly form from the cruiser, Steve nodded solemnly. "Okay."

Dean's face remained impassive.

"I don't know that I believe you," Steve went on ", but I don't think I can risk that you're wrong."

This time Dean smirked. "Good to know."

-O-

It was same as it was before. One minute Sam was lying quietly on his sleeping bag, the next he was struggling against an eternal inky blackness, gasping and pawing for air in a world he couldn't see. Then everything was still, the dark fog lifted and his eyes were filled with image of his own helpless form stretched across the floor. Again he was struck by the absolute absurdity of being upright and conscious while his body twitched and panted at his feet.

Gazing down at himself, Sam noticed the bags under his eyes and realized just how exhausting this gig had been for him, for Dean too. He resolved to suggest a break to Dean, just a day or two at a half way decent motel to catch up on their sleep.

Sounds from the kitchen drew his attention and he lifted his surreal gaze toward the doorway. He thought he could hear Dean's voice, and that of someone else. Whoever his brother was talking to was more than a little pissed off. But he couldn't afford the time to worry. He had one task at hand; find Linda Connor.

As if on cue, the multiplicity of female centers came sliding into place beside him, her dress cutting from a gown that brushed across his shoes to a shredded skirt over skinny, then muscled legs.

"You again," he said flatly, not sure whether to be glad or disturbed for the spirits' help.

"We knew you'd come," she purred with two dozen different voices, each carrying its own inflection to the words.

"Yeah," Sam folded his arms and turned to face the dynamic apparition. "In fact, I need your help again."


End file.
